Without a Grave (17 page)

‘So,' I said. ‘If I come across one of those condos out there, I can pick up a quick lobster dinner?'

Gator began to play out the rope. ‘I wouldn't if I were you. Local fishermen take their traps very seriously. I wouldn't want to be caught between a lobsterman and his catch.'

As the condo came to rest again against the bottom, a roundish object about the size of a coffee can half buried in the sand caught my eye. I swallowed hard, croaked, then managed to find my voice. ‘Gator!'

Gator dropped the rope and stared at me as if I'd lost my marbles.

I pointed. ‘Down there! Next to the condo.'

Gator peered into the water. ‘I'll be damned.' He took off his hat, handed it to me, then grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it off over his head, baring a fine set of pecs covered with sun-bleached fuzz. ‘Let's have a look.'

Before I could say, ‘But you're not wearing a bathing suit,' he had dived into the water. He reached the bottom in two easy strokes, picked up the disk, rotated it, then stuck it into the waistband of his pants and shot to the surface. He swam along the railway tracks until he could stand, then waded ashore.

I ran up the dock to meet him as he emerged from the water. ‘Well?'

Gator flicked water out of his buzz cut with the flat of his hand. He reached into his waistband, pulled out the disk, and handed it to me. ‘See for yourself.'

I was holding a polished steel oval, neatly framed in teak. The varnish had peeled off the frame in spots, but the engraving on the metal was plain as day: Cheoy Lee Boat Yard. Yard #2304. And the date, 1969.

All it would take was an email to Ben Stavis, keeper of the Rhodes Reliant Owners website or a phone call to the Cheoy Lee Boat Yard, still doing business in Hong Kong to prove what I knew for sure. There could be only one Cheoy Lee Reliant, yard number 2304.
Alice in Wonderland
was
Wanderer.

‘So what do we do now?'

‘I think we need to have a little chat with Jaime.'

TWELVE

AFTER A SHORT WALK UP THE HILL, I WAS SITTING AT THE BAR AT THE BLUFF HOUSE CHATTING WITH MY NEW FRIENDS WHEN A MAYDAY CAME ACROSS THE RADIO. ‘MAYDAY, MAYDAY, THIS IS OCEAN 55 ON A REEF OFF ELBOW CAY TAKING ON LOADS OF WATER.' LATER DURING A VISIT TO HOPE TOWN, I FOUND THE BOAT COMPLETELY SUNK, AND KEEPING WITH ISLAND TRADITION THE SALVAGERS WERE OUT THERE THE NEXT MORNING STRIPPING THE BOAT OF ANYTHING USABLE, LIKE PROPS, RAILS ETC.

Log of the
Motu Iti
, May 2000

E
arly the next morning, at my insistence, Paul took the ferry over to Marsh Harbour to see about buying a portable generator. Fine steaks were hard to come by in the islands, and watching helpless as they thawed . . . well, let's say I know how the cavewoman felt when the gazelle she speared for dinner got up and ran away.

So that's how it happened that the first time I set foot on the grounds of the Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina, it was in the company of a sun-bleached son of the islands, not my husband.

As we bumped along in Gator's golf cart, the Queen's Highway changed from a narrow strip of pavement to an even narrower one, then to a rutted dirt track, finally to hard-packed sand as it curved away from the settlement toward the sea. On the Atlantic side of the island it doubled back, crested a hill, then – fwap! – a spectacular view of the Sea of Abaco nearly knocked me out of my Crocs. ‘They should have
this
in their brochures,' I raved as we coasted down the other side.

Near the resort, the track widened to a less teeth-rattling strip of concrete wide enough for two golf carts to pass, although we didn't meet anyone coming from the opposite direction. The lane was bordered by sea grape, hibiscus and patches of flame-red poinsettias from which life-size animal sculptures peeked; clearly a landscape designer had been at work.

Before long we arrived at a crimson gatehouse designed like an old-style British telephone booth. A gate decorated with driftwood painted like barracuda barred our way.

Gator mashed his foot down on the brake pedal and the cart slowed silently to a stop. A guard dressed in the Tamarind Tree uniform stepped out of the booth to check us out. I recognized the young man as being among the volunteers at the wildfire the other day, but couldn't remember his name. His shirt saved me the trouble. When he got close enough, I could read the writing on the pocket: Lou.

Gator seemed to recognize the guy, too. ‘Hey, Lou. We need to see Jaime Mueller. Is he in?'

‘Do you have an appointment?' Lou sounded more like a receptionist at a law firm than a security guard in paradise.

‘Since when do
I
need an appointment?' Gator grumbled.

‘Just following orders, sir.' Lou slipped a hand-held out of his belt and pressed the call button. ‘Jenny, Jenny, this is Gate One. Come in.'

The radio crackled to life. ‘Jenny here. Go ahead, Lou.'

‘Got some people here to see Jaime. He around? Over.'

‘Tennis courts, I think. Over.'

‘Thanks. Gate One out.'

‘Out.'

Still holding his radio and giving me the hairy eyeball, Lou asked, ‘Can I tell him who's looking?'

‘Gator Crockett, from the dive shop. And this is Hannah Ives.'

‘Oh, sorry, Mr Crockett. I should have known.' He pushed a button on a remote he carried on his belt and the gate swung slowly open.

As we drove through, I muttered, ‘Darn right, he should have known. Your dive-shop logo is plastered all over the hood of your cart.'

Gator snorted.

‘Hey!' Lou called after us. ‘Follow the path around to the left. There'll be signs directing you to the tennis courts. I'll let Mr Mueller know you're coming.'

I watched in the mirror as the gate swung shut behind us.

Gator guided his cart along paved, gently curving lanes lined with tropical plantings and tiki lights on six-foot poles. The same artist who'd painted the fish on the main gate had also designed the whimsical directional signs we saw throughout the resort. We came to a fork in the road where a turtle directed us to the right for ‘tennis courts,' but Gator sailed right past.

‘Tennis courts are that way,' I said, pointing behind me and to the right.

‘I know.' Gator spun the steering wheel to the left, gunned the accelerator and grinned. ‘Now that we're here, I thought we might take a little tour.'

We passed a grouper, a pelican and a frigate bird directing us to the kitchen, laundry room, and crew's quarters, respectively, before rounding a bend that skirted an ornamental pond and appeared to dead end at a greenhouse. I was squinting at the greenhouse windows, trying to see the orchids that Rudy Mueller had told me about, but everything blurred as Gator steered hard left and we shot through a gap in the casuarinas.

Long before we got to the dolphin that said ‘Generator' we heard the drone of its engine, progressively increasing to a mind-numbing whine as we drew closer. Immediately behind the generator enclosure the water-treatment plant loomed into view, a state-of-the-art facility that supposedly used a reverse osmosis process to convert sea water to drinking water. Clearly, Mueller's Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina had no intention of falling to its knees at the mercy of either the BEC or Mother Nature.

Gator's tour had taken us in a wide circle to the western end of the island. When we reached the Atlantic beach, Gator killed the engine and climbed out of the cart. With both hands in his pockets he stood quietly on the dune, surveying the reef. ‘We're standing on the fifth hole.'

I got out of the cart and joined him, appreciating the view while I could. ‘It's criminal, isn't it?'

‘How many golf courses does a small group of islands need?' he wondered aloud. ‘Baker's Bay, Treasure Cay, Abaco Beach Resort . . . they're all just a stone's throw from Hawksbill.'

I stole a look at him. His profile was set, grim. I wanted to hug the man and tell him everything would be all right even when I knew it probably wouldn't. ‘It's not over 'til it's over,' I said.

Gator adjusted his cap, pulling the bill down over his forehead to better shade his eyes against the glare of the sun slanting off the water. ‘It's like trying to stop an avalanche.'

The man was in mourning. How do you console someone for the death of an island, a way of life?

I returned to the golf cart, climbed in and sat there quietly, leaving Gator alone with his thoughts. After a few minutes, he hopped in next to me, turned the key, floored the accelerator and sent the cart hurtling down the ocean path at breakneck speed, or what passes for breakneck speed in a golf cart, which is to say about fifteen miles per hour. He steered the vehicle around a curve and up a steep incline. The near-silent whine of the battery-powered engine changed to a rude putt-putt-putt as the gasoline booster kicked in to give us the extra oomph we needed to get up and over the hill.

At the bottom of the hill, we rounded a curve and sailed past the spa which was built up on stilts, South Pacific-style, before coming to a dolphin with ‘Tennis Court' carved into its tail.

There was not one court, however, but three. Jaime Mueller was doing a stationary prance on one of them, looking very GQ in white tennis shorts and a blue polo shirt. A matching sweatband encircled his forehead. He was lobbing balls back and forth across the net with another one of the uniformed college boys.

Gator slotted his golf cart next to a cart emblazoned with the familiar TTR logo and we watched as Jaime missed a few easy ones. Gator chuckled. ‘Hole in the boy's racquet.'

‘Maybe he's letting the other guy win?'

‘Jaime? What are you smoking?'

Jaime's opponent was poised with his racquet aloft and a tennis ball in his left hand when he noticed us. He lowered the racquet. ‘Mr Mueller?'

Jaime noticed us, too, and waved his racquet, halting the game. He ambled over to the sideline, snatched a towel off a chair and approached us, mopping his face and neck. ‘Hey, Gator. And it's Hannah, isn't it?' He flashed a grin so white and toothy that I could have played chopsticks on his teeth. He flipped the towel over a silver buttonwood bush. ‘I never forget a pretty face.'

I bit my tongue.

‘So, what can I do for you?'

‘Some place we can talk?'

‘Iced tea?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Meet you up at the lodge, then.'

A few minutes later, Gator and I had parked the cart and were meandering up the well-maintained, beautifully landscaped path that led to the Tamarind Tree restaurant. ‘A bit more upmarket than the Cruise Inn and Conch Out, isn't it?' I commented.

The short path that led from the Queen's Highway to our favorite local establishment was neatly bordered with polished conch shells, its yellow elder and one small gumbo-limbo tree festooned with flotsam and jetsam – considered good luck in the islands – like a Christmas tree on Gilligan's Island. At the Cruise Inn and Conch Out, one ate inside.

At the Tamarind Tree, on the other hand, one dined on the veranda in green wicker chairs – plastic-coated but expensive – while fans with blades like palm branches rotated slowly overhead. White cloths covered tables decorated with fresh hibiscus in tall, oriental-style vases. We sat down at one of them and talked about the weather while awaiting the arrival of our iced tea, delivered after a few minutes by a beautiful Bahamian girl who couldn't have been more than sixteen.

Jaime leered. ‘Thanks, sweetheart.'

She ducked her head modestly and scurried away. Smart girl. Looked to me like Jaime'd been fixing to pat her tush.

Jaime ripped open a packet of Sweet'N Low and dumped it into his tea. ‘So, what can I do for you?' He tore the wrapper off a straw, plopped the straw into his tea and stirred vigorously. ‘Have you reconsidered my offer to operate out of the dive shop here at Tamarind Tree?'

Gator skewered Jaime with ice-cold eyes and got straight to the point. ‘The
Alice in Wonderland
. Tell me about it.'

I watched Jaime's face as a full range of emotions played across it – a self-satisfied smile, puzzlement, worry, and finally a straight-lipped, raised-eyebrow glare that I could describe only as arrogant. Jaime put the straw to his lips and sipped, making a production out of drawing the liquid up slowly, swallowing, and setting his glass back on the table. Buying time, I decided. Making up his cover story as he went along.

Gator and I waited patiently while Jaime got his act together.

‘Found it,' he said at last.

‘You
found
it?' I blurted.

‘Had to take some prospects back to Harbour Island the other day. As I came back across the Devil's Backbone, I found it grounded on the rocks off Spanish Wells, sails still up and flapping. Pulled alongside, as anyone would, to see if there was anything I could do to help.' He spread his hands, palms up, and shrugged. ‘But nobody was aboard.'

‘Nobody?'

‘Not a soul. Like they'd evaporated or something. I tied up alongside, climbed aboard and looked around. It was fucking spooky, like that ghost ship, the Marie Something.'

‘Mary,' I corrected. ‘The
Mary Celeste
.'

‘Right.'

‘What was the name of the boat you boarded?'

‘
Wanderer
.' Jaime yawned.

I wanted to slap him. ‘Did you know that there is a bulletin out for that vessel? It belongs to Frank Parker, a scientist from the Smithsonian Institution in Washington DC.'

‘No shit!'

We waited, saying nothing. Jaime stared at us until he felt compelled to fill the silence with the sound of his own voice. ‘I figured pirates.'